The Washington Club Read Online Free PDF

heap wasn’t there when I got home last night.’
    The Falcon is old by some car owners’standards but not by mine, nor is it a heap. Everything works most of the time. I took in a deep breath. ‘You’re new around here,’ I said. ‘Parking’s a bit of a problem for all of us and we try to get along. Now I suggest you hop into your magnificent chariot and warm it up while I back up and give you all the room you’re ever going to need. Okay?’
    â€˜You think I can’t get out of there?’
    I was in no mood for a
mine’s bigger
than
yours
session. ‘My friend, you said you were parked in . . .’
    â€˜Stay there. I’ll show you.’
    He opened the door, threw his briefcase inside, climbed in and started the engine. The 4WD gave out the sort of masculine roar he no doubt liked and I stepped across to the other side of the road to admire his technique. He turned the steering wheel hard, gunned the motor and put the Toyota into reverse. His judgement was lousy; the vehicle lurched back and the heavy rear bar thumped into the front of the Falcon. I didn’t have time to swear because the collision was followed by an explosion. The Falcon’s windshield and windows blew out; the front seat disintegrated and the roof bulged and then split with a shrieking sound that blended with the noise of the shattered glass. The Toyota driver panicked; he gunned the motor, shot forward and tore a rear panel from the Commodore as he rabbit-hopped away from the kerb. He stopped in themiddle of the road and I could see his shoulders shaking as he held onto the steering wheel.
    Suddenly the street was full of people, including the owner of the Commodore, who tore open the door of the Toyota, dragged the driver out and began to scream at him.
    â€˜You fucker! Look what you’ve done to my car! You stupid cunt!’
    He didn’t pay any attention to the Falcon, which looked as if all the air inside it had suddenly expanded a hundred times and burst the car at the seams. I told the people milling around to stay back in case the car caught fire, but after a few minutes it didn’t seem likely to happen. It wasn’t that kind of a device, but if I’d been behind the wheel when it went off I’d have been in several pieces on the road. A woman offered me a cigarette and I took it automatically. She lit us both up and said she’d called the police. I thanked her and smoked the cigarette. Some of the people in the street knew what I did for a living. Some were interested, some were amused, some disapproved. I could hear them muttering about ‘private eyes’ when the first of the police cars arrived. The Commodore owner had calmed down after taking in more of the scene. He and the 4WD man were apologetically exchanging information. Any minute they’d be asking me the name of my insurance company. I drew on the cigarette and wondered if I’d be able to prevent myself from punching the first one to ask.
    The police performance was about average. They took down details, inspected my ID and various licences—driver’s, private enquiry agent, gun carrier. The uniformed men weren’t happy and the two detectives who arrived a bit later were even less so. Detective Senior Constable Deakin, a short, intense individual with an aggressive style, pressed me for details of the cases I was currently working on. I wasn’t forthcoming. We were over by my front fence by this time. The police had dispersed the crowd. The Toyota had driven shakily off and a tow truck was hoisting up the Commodore—the rear axle had suffered some serious damage.
    â€˜You put these people’s life at risk,’ Deakin said, waving his arm at the houses in the street.
    â€˜Not really,’ I said. ‘That was some sort of anti-personnel device. Very specific. Very clean.’
    â€˜Clean!’
    â€˜It would’ve killed me and no one else.